


Breathe

by writerofberk



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Gen, Trauma, hurt!Barnum, pt barnum needs a fuckin HUG, suffocation, whoo boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 03:45:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14685771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writerofberk/pseuds/writerofberk
Summary: It’s not as if this is the first time P.T.’s ever insisted on doing something monumentally stupid for the sake of livening up the circus before, but and it always ends the same way: P.T. scrapes by unscathed, the usual spring in his step and showman’s smile on his face, looking utterly invincible. And then—suddenly—he isn’t.





	Breathe

It's not as if this is the first time P.T.'s ever insisted on doing something monumentally stupid for the sake of livening up the circus before – just the opposite, in fact – but it is probably the first time Phillip hasn't gotten that familiar little twinge of unease in the pit of his stomach, that nagging sense in the back of his mind that tells him something is going to go wrong.

Things like this just don't bother him the way they used to – he's seen the ringmaster throw himself into gamble after reckless, death-defying gamble, whether it involves a bed of nails or a couple inexplicably enraged lions, and it always ends the same way, always: P.T. scrapes by unscathed, the usual spring in his step and showman's smile on his face, and the new act is integrated into the circus the following week. Audiences eat it up, ticket sales see a sudden, drastic increase, and for the next few days, P.T. struts around looking decidedly too pleased with himself, saying it's "all a bit of that showman magic", or however he puts it.

It's luck, is what it really is, just a whole lot of sheer, dumb luck, but there are times – like when that flaming-hoop trick went horribly wrong, and P.T. caught on fire in front of a crowd of thousands. Anyone else probably – no, definitely – would have panicked in that situation, but not P.T.; he took maybe three seconds to pat the fire out again, and even less than that to shoot the stunned, silent audience a winning smile and a jovial reminder to tell everyone how much fun they had at the circus before bowing elaborately, sleeve still smoking slightly. Of course, he spent the next three days bemoaning the microscopic burn on his favorite red jacket, and didn't seem to care one way or the other that the same thing could have happened, on a much larger scale, to his very skin—but there's just something about the way he looks in those moments, right after the danger has passed—all flushed and triumphant and grinning like crazy—there's something about the way he looks then that makes him seem unarguably, utterly invincible.

And then—suddenly—he isn't.

It starts out the way it always does, with P.T. bursting into their shared office, talking a mile a minute and gesticulating wildly with his hat in one hand—he keeps putting it on, and then taking it off again a second later, like he can't decide what he really wants to do with his hands. He always gets like this when he's just had an idea, face all lit up like a Christmas tree, and speaking so fast, he sounds almost feverish, and all the words start to run together, or they get all tangled up in each other, and he trips over some of them and skips some others entirely in his eagerness to say all of them at once. He always gets like this when he's just had an idea, and Phillip finds he still can't keep up.

"Slow down, P.T.," he says, for what feels like the millionth time since he joined the circus – hell, it probably is.

"Escapology," P.T. replies, like that explains anything at all.

And, actually, now that Phillip stops to think about it, he can see that it sort of does. "Like…like Harry Houdini?" He wrinkles his brow.

"Yes! Yes!" If possible, P.T.'s smile gets even wider, and he looks about two seconds away from jumping up and down like a kid. "Exactly like that!" He jabs a finger at his partner. "Except…not."

"Well, that clears everything up," Phillip scoffs; he takes a sip of coffee.

"No one ever really saw any of Houdini's escapes," P.T. crosses the cluttered room to his desk, and hoists himself up, one-handed, onto the scratched, battered surface. "These," he leans forward conspiratorially, as if bestowing upon the other a life-altering secret, and doesn't seem to care that he's draped halfway across Phillip's desk while never leaving his own, "would be very visible."

Phillip leans back; the legs of his chair scrape harshly against the floor, until he's balanced only on the back two. "Okay. Great. So we hire an escape artist. You have somebody in mind?" He cocks a brow.

P.T. grins. "Me?"

The front legs of the chair come down against the floor again with a sharp thud. "What?"

"I've been reading up on it," P.T. leans back again, pressing the heels of his hands into the desktop to balance himself. "Can't be that hard, right?"

Phillip almost laughs at the absurdity of the remark—it's so unbelievable and outrageous and utterly P.T. – but he swallows it down. "You…you…" And then, incredibly, he realizes he's not worried. He thinks about the bed of nails—the lions—the fire, and the smile, and the smoking sleeve—and he isn't worried at all.

This is just another risk, and the odds, as he's learned, are always in P.T.'s favor.

"You'll need to practice," he says, and even as he says it, he can hardly believe he's saying it, but the idea makes sense in an odd sort of way, and he's kind of coming around to it. "You'll need to practice a lot."

P.T. flashes a smile brighter than the sun, and vaults off the desk—he puts his hat back on again with one of those unnecessary flourishes he's so fond of, says he "knew you'd come around, Phil", and that is that.

Three days later, a coffin – an actual coffin, about six feet in length and completely airtight, made entirely of smooth, flawless oak almost three inches thick appears in the tent; P.T. runs his hands over it with a soft, approving whistle, touching the immaculate surface almost reverently.

Phillip tries to point out the morbidity of shutting oneself inside a coffin; out of the corner of his eye, he sees Lettie nodding. P.T. ignores the both of them.

The odds, when they finally do start practicing it, are in P.T.'s favor, the way they usually are, and when he finally flips open the coffin lid and clambers out, just under the two-minute mark, with a flushed face and beaming smile, Phillip isn't even surprised. He isn't surprised the second time, either—or the third—or the fourth, for that matter—and he isn't surprised when, the night of their next show, P.T. takes him aside, tells him to waive the two-minute time limit—just give me an extra thirty seconds or so—it'll be more exciting if we drag it out—for the audience, you know—got to make them think I'm really struggling—just thirty seconds—that's all—

No, Phillip isn't surprised, but – and this is the weird part – he isn't worried, either. Still. He thinks about the bed of nails. The lions. The fire. About the odds.

"Can't push it much further than that," he says, instead of arguing; he finishes buttoning up his jacket, and reaches for his hat.

P.T. grins. "Wouldn't dream of it."

When they step out into the ring, the world explodes in a wonderful, dizzying blur of flames and animals and bright lights and glitter and colors and music and his own body moving on instinct, falling easily into the familiar steps of the dance, and then it's Charles charging in on horseback and Lettie's voice rising above the rest, and the soft rustle of her favorite silk dress, and Anne fifty feet above them all, agile and beautiful, swinging deftly from hoop to hoop, and Mrs. Barnum in the back, beaming, with the girls jumping up and down on their seats beside her, and Phillip finds he's gasping and breathless and smiling so hard it hurts, and for the thousandth time since that night in the bar, he's so glad he went to the other side—

And then the song reaches its end, and the coffin is brought into the ring.

P.T. never misses a beat; the box has barely been on the floor a minute before he produces a set of shining silver manacles from seemingly nowhere, taking a moment to hold them up for the audience – and positively beaming when the sight draws gasps and whistles from at least a few dozen people.

Phillip rolls his eyes; he really doesn't see the point of the chains, to tell the truth. He called them overkill, when P.T. first showed them off to him—for God's sake, the man was already going to be locking himself in a damn coffin, what on earth did he need to wrap himself in chains for?—but P.T. pointed out that Harry Houdini used chains, so then Phillip asked if Harry Houdini was also an idiot, and—well, to make a long story short, it was an argument Phillip hadn't won, so when P.T. tosses the heap of metal at him, he catches it without protest, and fastens on the fetters exactly as the older man told him to—round the wrists—looped back over the shoulders—tight against the chest—and steps back a minute, to inspect his handiwork—P.T. would go into conniptions if it didn't look "inescapable" enough—and then he helps the other man into the coffin, still lying open in the center of the ring.

A sudden hush falls over the crowd, and the last of their cheers fade away into silence.

Mrs. Barnum, Phillip sees when he steals a glance at the stands, doesn't look surprised at all.

Good. At least her husband gave her fair warning what he was getting into before he did it.

As P.T. eases himself back into the yawning blackness of the empty crate, he catches Phillip's eye and mouths, "Thirty seconds."

Phillip nods – he remembers – and closes the coffin.

It's going to be a long two minutes.

From the looks of the audience, they feel the same; several people cast anxious, uneasy glances at the coffin, a few even leaning around their neighbors to keep it in their sights.

Phillip doesn't take out his pocket watch – P.T. insisted on it, said it'd "ruin the excitement" or something like that – but he keeps silent, careful count in his head, and if he's still on-track, it's been about thirty seconds since he latched the coffin.

Lettie glances at the locked crate, and presses her lips together – she's never been any more a fan of P.T.'s impetuous schemes than Phillip has. Not that anyone in the circus really likes watching their ringmaster go plunging headlong into his millionth risky, unpredictable venture since he brought them together—and then he has the nerve to laugh, and say they're "impeding progress" whenever they try to raise a protest.

Sixty seconds.

Phillip knows, thanks to all their practice run-throughs, that P.T. can get out of the chains in that time, and have the coffin open in even less, but there's no way the ringmaster will sacrifice the suspense and excitement of this moment for the sake of a hasty escape.

He sneaks another glance at Mrs. Barnum; she's got a close eye on the coffin, and she doesn't seem any happier about this than Lettie or himself, but the girls are still bouncing around in their seats, blind to, or perhaps just ignoring, the riskier side of this new act – they've probably seen their father get out of far worse scrapes than this one.

Time's nearly up now, if he's still tallying it up right, but he knows better than to think there's even a chance in hell P.T. will unlatch the coffin before he absolutely has to; he'll stay where he is for as long as possible, hype up the drama, put on a good show, do what he does best. Still, it shouldn't be too much longer until—

The latch starts to rattle.

The sound is loud as a scream in the thick silence filling up the tent; several people start in their seats, a few gasp, and Mrs. Barnum relaxes visibly, pressing one gloved hand to her mouth. Her girls break out in cheers beside her.

But the coffin—

The coffin doesn't open.

"Damn it, P.T.," Phillip murmurs, half under his breath, before he can stop himself – he thinks of the bed of the nails, the lions, the fire, the sleeve, the smile, but something cold settles in his gut all the same. The other man knows what he's doing – of that, Phillip has no doubt – but he's really pushing it at this point; whatever he's doing, whatever the hell he thinks he's playing at, he really needs to just wrap things up—he's already been in there too long—longer than in any of their practice sessions, for sure—

The latch rattles again—again—again—

P.T.'s still not opening the coffin.

What the hell is he doing in there?

Another rattle, and then—

And then a thump.

The girls stop cheering.

Something—something isn't right.

Phillip hesitates a minute longer, but he starts toward the coffin anyway. Maybe P.T. really is okay—maybe he really is just hyping everything up for the sake of the audience—maybe there really is nothing to worry about—maybe he is just getting worked up over nothing—but—

But this has gone on long enough. Act or no act.

Phillip quickens his pace, and kneels down beside the box – another thump racks the dark, gleaming wood. He grabs at the latch, and—

The latch—

The latch is stuck.

Phillip freezes.

And then – "Goddamn it, P.T.!" – and then he comes back to himself, and makes another grab for the latch.

"Just—just hang on!" He has no idea if the other man can even hear him, with all that wood between them, but he keeps talking anyway – and he realizes, dimly, distantly, that while his hands are shaking, fingers clumsy with panic and throat thick with raw fear, his voice is steady. "Just hang on, P.T., we'll have you out of there in a second—

But the metal won't give, and his heart is pounding so hard, it hurts, and when he turns, what looks like the entire circus has crowded around him, staring at the coffin—

"We have to—we have to get—we have to get him out of there—there's no air in there— he doesn't have any air—!" He doesn't know what he's doing; he doesn't know how to do this, how to break a latch, or pick a lock—that's the sort of stuff P.T.'s good at—maybe O'Malley could help them only he's pretty sure O'Malley's still up front in the ticket booth—and he doesn't know if P.T. can wait for someone to run and fetch O'Malley anyway because he's in a damn coffin and he's got no air, and—God, he doesn't know what he's doing—he does not know what he's doing—

And then there's a knife in his hand, and he doesn't know where it came from or who put it there and he doesn't even know if a knife will do the job—P.T. would know—but he turns it on the latch anyway, and his hands are shaking so badly it'll be a miracle if he can even hit the latch at all, and then he does and it makes an odd sort of chinking sound, and he's not sure if that's a good sign or a bad sign or what, so he does it again, and the latch—the latch breaks, clean off the coffin, and down onto the floor of the ring, and Phillip rips open the lid and—

And—

And P.T. isn't moving.

P.T. isn't moving, he's just—he's just lying there, sprawled slackly at the bottom of the crate, eyes closed, lips slightly parted—God, his skin looks almost grey—Phillip reaches in, and drags him from the coffin, with all the strength he's got left—and then Mrs. Barnum is there, on her knees in the middle of the ring, her long pale hair falling in thin, tangled wisps—and her girls are there, too, tears streaking down their small, scared faces, staring down at their father—and Charles is shouting—something—but there's a weird kind of buzzing in Phillip's ears, a relentless static filling him up until he can't hear a thing—and the girls are still crying and P.T. still isn't moving and people are getting up from their seats, and edging towards the ring, and craning their necks and peering around their neighbors—gawking—and a anger flares, fierce and fiery, in the pit of Phillip's stomach—and he opens his mouth—for God's sake, what's wrong with them—why don't they just leave—

But then Charles starts shouting again, and this time—this time—Phillip can hear him. "What the hell you think you're lookin' at?! Get outta here! Show's over!"

But no one leaves—no one listens to him—they all just keep standing there—and staring—and—

"He said," Lettie steps forward suddenly, and grabs Charles' hand up in her own, lifting her chin, "show's over."

W.D. steps forward, then, too—and Anne—and Fedor, and Constantine, and Leeds, and then, suddenly, it's all of them, every single one, dancers and flyers and lion tamers and fire eaters and everyone, a solid, silent barrier between P.T. and the rest of the world, and no one moves, and no one says anything, and Phillip just knows somebody's about to hit somebody, and he knows he needs to get to his feet, try and deescalate the situation however he can, but—

But the people start stepping back. And then – incredibly – the people start to leave.

They go slowly, trickling out in groups of two and three, stealing backward glances the whole way out the door, but they go, and Phillip lets out a small, shaky breath he didn't even realize he was holding.

"…Phillip?"

The word's barely more than a small, drowsy mumble, so quiet it's nearly lost amid the questions and complaints of the dissatisfied crowd still heading for the exits, but P.T.'s eyes are open, looking right at him, and he's breathing, he's breathing, and the relief flooding Phillip is so overwhelming, he feels almost faint with the force of it.

"What…" P.T. swallows, and a little crease forms between his brows. "What happen—?"

"Daddy!"

And then the girls are there, shrieking and shouting and clinging to P.T., with all the strength in their small hands, smiling wide through the tears still drying on their cheeks.

P.T. sits up and gathers the girls in his arms—smiles at them, calls them his little princesses, and kisses the tops of their blonde heads when they bury their faces in his shoulder, and his easy grin never once falters.

"The box," Helen starts to say, but Caroline interrupts her, one young voice getting lost in the other.

"Daddy, the box—the box didn't open, it didn't—"

P.T. doesn't let her finish, and even though he's still smiling, it doesn't reach his eyes, and the words come out heavy. "Yeah, we all played a pretty good trick tonight, wouldn't you say?"

Caroline abruptly pulls back, little face crinkling in disbelief; there's a dark, damp stain on her father's collar where her head just was. "Tr-trick?" She sniffles and rubs at her eyes. "It—it was a trick?"

And P.T. nods, and hitches the smile back on his face the second she looks at him, and Phillip thinks, if he hadn't been the one at the latch, he might just believe it himself.

"You weren't—you weren't really trapped—?"

"Don't be silly, Helen, it'd take more than that to keep your old man down. Doesn't look as though this crowd liked it much, though," P.T. adds ruefully, casting a glance at the last few stragglers still leaving the tent – trust him to think of the show, of all things, at a time like this.

Phillip watches as the girls relax against their father's chest, Caroline slipping her arms back around P.T.'s neck to hug him properly, and Mrs. Barnum is silent the whole way through, gloved hands clasped in her lap and her eyes always on her husband, a strange mixture of affection and exasperation in her gaze.

"Daddy?" Helen pulls away first this time, voice quavering in a way Phillip never imagined it could – the little girl is far too bold for such timidity. "Don't play that trick again, okay? Ever. I didn't like it, either."

* * *

 

The whole thing ends as quickly as it began. They start on the usual after-show clean-up, and the workers shed their circus costumes for street clothes and wash the powder and glitter from their faces with practiced ease. Phillip finds P.T. in an unused, unlit corner of the tent, red ringmaster jacket torn half-off, hanging limply from one shoulder like the broken wing of an injured bird, and one hand pressed to his temple, lips pulled back in a pained grimace. Phillip tries to ask if he's okay, and P.T.'s head snaps up and he straightens and takes his hand off his head and says, in a sharper voice than normal, not to sneak up on people.

The coffin, broken latch still swinging, is put away in the back of the tent, under crates and boxes and trunks, and nothing more is said about any of it.

And that should be the end of it.

But it's not, because when Phillip walks into the office the next morning, P.T.'s at his desk, bent over a thick sheaf of papers, dark curls tumbling down into his eyes, and he—

He doesn't talk.

He doesn't say a word—barely even looks up, come to that, just flicks the end of his pencil at his partner in silent greeting before resuming his task, and as the thin graphite tip scratches across the sheet, Phillip doesn't know what to do. This isn't how it's supposed to go; P.T.'s supposed to jump out of his seat and start rambling on about some new act he thought up at three in the morning, or he's supposed to be sifting through the desk drawers and grumbling under his breath about the disorder, even though it's all his fault anyway because he refuses to clean the desk himself, and he won't let anyone do it for him, either, because he has a "system", and then Phillip's supposed to ask if that system is never being able to find anything, ever, and P.T.'s supposed to try not to smile and fail, but none of that happens, none of it, and Phillip doesn't know what to do.

He steals another glance at the dark-haired head before he forces his feet to move, to carry him to the chair behind his own, significantly better-organized, desk.

And even though P.T.'s not really acting all that different – still joking around, still smiling, still laughing with Lettie and clapping Leeds on the back and strutting around with that proud, cocksure grin spread wide across his face, there are times, and they never last long, but there are times when his smile slips, and the light behind his eyes burns out, and in those moments, when Phillip sees what isn't shown, P.T. is suddenly very, very different.

And when a group of at least sixty people from their last show comes marching into the tent, demanding full refunds, there's a moment, and it doesn't last long, but P.T. stiffens—goes curiously silent, and eerily still—and he's suddenly different—and then—and then he steps forward, and smiles his most charming smile, words sweet as honey pouring from his lips like rain.

And if he's thought up any new acts in the past few days, he's not talking about them, doesn't even mention them, and when Phillip stops by the office later in the week to invite him out for drinks with the rest of the troupe he says—

"No." He doesn't even look up from the paper he's reading. "No. Thank you, Phillip. Maybe next time."

Considering the way P.T.'s been acting lately, Phillip more than expected the refusal, but it still makes something inside him turn cold; this confirms it, then, beyond a shadow of any doubt – something really is wrong with his partner, if the guy's passing up an opportunity to drink, especially with the rest of the circus. If Phillip didn't know him better, he'd almost be tempted to say P.T.'s acting like he feels…guilty.

"I hope you all have a good night," P.T. adds, and flips the page over to read the back; he still won't look up.

Phillip hears the dismissal in the words, loud and clear, and maybe he should listen to it; maybe he should just leave, just go meet up with the others outside the tent like he said he would, because knowing them, they'll take off for the bar without him if he doesn't show up in the next fifteen seconds, but—but—he firms his mouth, and sets his hat down on the edge of the other man's desk. "P.T.," he's not really sure where to go from here. "Are you—I mean, is everything…" His mouth goes dry. This is Lettie's territory. Mrs. Barnum's territory. Not his. Not even close. "…Is everything okay?"

Well, that gets P.T.'s attention, at least. It even gets him to look up.

"Everything's fine, Phillip." He puts the paper down. "I understand all the refunds and a few of the more recent reports must seem concerning, but I assure you, the circus is well in hand. There's nothing you need to worry about." He smiles.

"…I—I wasn't talking about the circus." Phillip can't even believe he has to explain that—well, okay, yeah, he actually can. "I was talking about you."

P.T.'s smile slips.

"Is everything—is everything okay with you?"

"Fine. Fine." P.T. turns back to the paper, smoothing it flat upon his desktop. "You should head out, Phil, before they decide to run off without you." He glances up, the beginnings of a grin on his face – a real one this time. "You know how they are."

"Yeah." When Phillip looks a little closer, he sees dark shadows beneath the older man's eyes, but he forces himself to smile and nod anyway; he's learned, over the past several months since he joined the circus, that if P.T. doesn't want to do something, doesn't want to talk about something, then he just won't, and that's that, and it's not like it'll do any good to push him. He drags in a breath, and pushes off the desk.

"See you tomorrow, P.T."

* * *

 

"He's not coming."

It's not a question, not really, but Phillip shakes his head anyway. "No."

"Can't say we weren't expecting that," Charles mutters.

"Do you guys…" Phillip hesitates a minute before he takes the plunge. "Do you guys think he's…okay?"

"Barnum?" Anne raises her eyebrows.

"He's been—he's been acting like—he's been acting weird all week. He's been acting weird ever since…" Phillip drops his voice to a whisper. "…Since our last show."

"Yeah, imagine that," Lettie says dryly. "He's had a lot on his plate, Carlyle," she adds, more gently. "We all have. You know how the people reacted to the…" She stops.

A second of slightly awkward silence, and then Charles murmurs something about getting to the bar before sunrise, and everyone starts grabbing hats and scarves and heading for the opening.

"Yeah," Phillip says, and suddenly, the weight on his chest feels a little bit lighter; Lettie's right, of course she's right, she almost always is – P.T.'s just trying to clean up the mess of their last show, and hasn't stopped to think about, or really notice, anything else. That makes sense. That makes a lot of sense. He reaches up to tug his hat down a little, but his fingers find only empty air, and—damn it.

"Left my hat in the office," he explains, at Anne's questioning look. "I'll be right back—you guys go on ahead, I'll catch up." He jerks his chin at the tent opening and smiles at her, at all of them, before heading back the way he came; they probably won't actually go off without him, and he quickens his pace at the thought. No use in making them wait.

The tent's mostly dark by now, the last of the lanterns still burning down, but Phillip can find his way without a light – could probably find his way even if he shut his eyes and spun on the spot, he's been through here so many times. He rounds a tall, tottering stack of chipped, battered crates, piled so precariously one atop the other that they look to always be on the verge of falling—the office is just around the corner, and he hastens forward—and—

—and—

Phillip stops.

P.T.'s tucked himself away in that unused, unlit corner of the tent from their last show, and he's on the ground—on his knees—looking at something Phillip can't see, so he steps forward—edges a little farther around the stack of crates—

The coffin.

Phillip draws back, a sharp gasp tumbling from his lips. What the hell—what the hell does P.T. want with the damned coffin? For God's sake, it nearly became his coffin! Why would he—why would—

P.T. opens the coffin.

The latch is still broken, swinging unevenly back and forth, and the sound of the metal hitting the wood is enough to make Phillip physically sick. Looking away is never a thought in his head.

P.T. stands up—straightens out his coat—rolls up his sleeves—

—and steps, very deliberately, over the lip, and down into the coffin. There's a sound, a strange sort of hitch to his breathing, that wasn't there a minute ago.

Phillip should—he should—he should do something—he wants to do something, but it's like he's frozen, lips sewn shut like a little girl's doll, feet fixed fast to the ground, and what the hell is going on?

P.T. lays down in the box, reaches up, and pulls down the lid.

And Phillip—

P.T. lying motionless in the bottom of the coffin, lips slightly parted and skin tinged grey while his wife goes pale and his daughters cry and—

—Phillip isn't frozen anymore. His legs are shaking—he's shaking all over, really, but he's moving, rushing toward the coffin like his life depends on it, and he realizes, dimly, that the screams echoing in his ears—"P.T.!"—are entirely his own.

He reaches the coffin—tears up the lid—it isn't latched, thank God it isn't latched—of course it's not latched—the latch is broken—and then P.T.'s staring up at him, and he's okay, he's all right, he's completely fine—his mouth pulling down a little at the corners, like he's irritated, but he's breathing—

"What—what—?" Phillip's mouth is dry, and his tongue won't work, and he realizes, with a start, that the shaking has gotten worse. "—what the hell are you doing?"

P.T. sits up inside the coffin, and frowns at him. "I thought you were going out for drinks."

"And I thought…" His voice cracks a little, right in the middle, and he has to start again. "I thought you weren't an idiot!"

P.T.'s frown deepens. "Phil—

"No." Suddenly, he can speak again, and all the words come pouring out of him like water from a cracked pitcher. "P.T., what the hell were you doing?"

"…Practicing," P.T. says at last.

"Practice—practicing?" Phillip echoes warily, pulse picking up speed—dear God, please don't let P.T. be saying what he thinks he's saying…

"For the show." P.T.'s tone is a little too casual now.

"For the—for the show?"

"Come on, Phillip," P.T. even has the nerve to throw in a laugh, "you didn't really think I'd scrap the whole act over one little hiccup, did you?"

"One little hiccup?" Phillip doesn't even sound a thing like himself anymore, but he's way too pissed off at this point to care. "Sorry, but I think I'd call getting locked in a box without air for five minutes more than one little hiccup!"

"Don't give me that, Phillip, the incident was hardly worth—

"Oh, so it's an incident now—?"

"Come on, Carlyle!" Lettie appears suddenly from behind the towering stack of crates, trailed by Charles and Anne. "It doesn't take that long to grab a…" She sees P.T. then—Phillip sees her dark eyes flick over to him—sees the coffin lying open, sees him sitting upright inside it, and for maybe half an instant, a heavy hush falls across the group.

And then—

"Barnum." Lettie's voice is calm, remarkably so—calmer, by far, than Phillip's. "What the hell are you doing." Somehow, she makes every syllable count.

"Practicing." P.T. doesn't near so confident this time; he gets to his feet and steps out of the coffin.

"For the show?" Lettie catches on faster than Phillip, raising one eyebrow. "You already tried that once, Barnum. 'Case you don't remember, it didn't end well."

"I know there were some…" P.T.'s quiet for a long second. "…kinks…to work out…"

"You got locked in a coffin, P.T., that's a little more than a kink," Phillip tries to point out, but P.T. just talks over him.

"But I can assure all of you, I see where I went wrong last time, and I won't repeat those mistakes."

"What do you mean?" Anne's mouth twists down into a frown.

P.T. looks back at the coffin. "I won't risk jeopardizing the circus again."

For a minute, there's silence—Phillip turns the words over and over in his mind, too stunned to speak. That's what's bothering him—that's why he's been acting so weird all week—of course that's what it is—the idiot—

"The circus?" Lettie narrows her eyes. "That's what you're—that's—you're not gonna risk the circus?"

P.T. catches the exasperation in her tone, and wrinkles his brow. "I—I don't see what the issue is—I'm taking steps to ensure the security of the show—I thought you'd all be pleased to hear it, I—

Phillip can't keep quiet any longer. "Oh, yeah, the show, that's exactly what we're worried about. Definitely not the fact you nearly died up on stage last week, and can't wait to try it again! Jesus, P.T., I actually thought you were dead for a secondwhen I opened that coffin!"

"We don't want anything to happen to the circus, Barnum," Lettie interjects – as usual, she puts it into words better than Phillip ever could. "But more than that, we don't want anything to happen to you."

"You've kind of grown on us, Barnum," Charles adds, a half-smile creeping up the corner of his mouth. "Don't screw it up."

For the first time since Phillip's met him, and maybe the first time ever, P.T.'s speechless, or at least it looks that way; he's staring, wide-eyed, around at them all like he's never really seen them before—like he can't believe what he's hearing—and Phillip remembers, suddenly, the way he looked in the office earlier—his smile slipping and his eyebrows rising—the way he himself had to stop and explain—I wasn't talking about the circus—as if that wasn't obvious—and he's caught between wanting to hug P.T., and wanting to hit him in the same moment, but he hasn't even decided which one to act on when Lettie steps past Charles, and pulls the ringmaster into her arms.

"Oh, Barnum." She doesn't say it so much as she sighs it, like a mother, equal parts exasperated and loving.

P.T. goes still for a minute, his red-coated shoulders tensing—Phillip's sure he's going to shove her away—and then, all at once, all the fight goes out of him, and he lifts a hesitant hand to return the hug.

"Don't do it." Lettie's voice is gentle, but there's no missing the warning in her tone. "Don't go back in that coffin, Barnum, don't you dare be that stupid."

P.T. laughs, a little unsteadily and when he pulls away a few seconds later, he smiles at her, a small and fleeting and grateful smile. "If you insist."

"We'll fix what happened at the last show." Lettie leans in and squeezes his shoulder. "But we can fix it in a different way."

"You're—you're right." P.T. lets out a breath, reaching up to rub at his temple. "I—I'm really sorry I did this to you all."

"Not like we expect much out of you, anyway." In contrast to the harsh words, Charles reaches over to pat his knee.

P.T. huffs out a laugh. "'Course not."

"And since you're not tryin' to kill yourself anymore—

"Charles!"

"—you feel like grabbin' a drink?"

"Who's paying?"

"Buy your own damn drink, Barnum."

**Author's Note:**

> this ... is ... Bad


End file.
